


Sad Millennial Boi

by thirsyduck



Series: Duck Dump Drabble [1]
Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24698011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirsyduck/pseuds/thirsyduck
Summary: Drake being a moody bitch on a rooftop, drinking vodka cranberry, and vaping.
Relationships: Drake Mallard/Launchpad McQuack
Series: Duck Dump Drabble [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785571
Kudos: 29





	Sad Millennial Boi

**Author's Note:**

> Changing the format for this series to clean it up and making is easier for people who only care about certain characters/ships. And for them to better avoid tags they want nothing to do with. 
> 
> It's still unbeta'd and just random lil' ideas I have. 
> 
> Also, apologies to all the lovely people who commented on these drabbles before. You are 120% appreciated. I just really wanted to clean this up.

High up on a rooftop bar, a wrap party was in full swing. Cast and crew intermingled and laughter could be heard all the way down to the bustling street below. It was late, probably somewhere around ten, and Saint Canard’s night life was going strong. The city lights twinkled high in the sky like artificial stars, leaving only the blackest of alleys in shadow. The bar was one of those stars, which was funny, because it was also full of them. An upscale bar, with a pool, lights strung around the canopy; the exclusive kind. The kind that only let a bird in via invitation or after a lurid assessment of their body.

With a chuckle, Drake thought about how he’d used both methods to get in before. Though, this time he was here strictly due to the wrap party. It was for a little indie film he’d been a part of; they had needed a stuntman on the cheap and after the whole Darkwing fiasco, that’s the exact salary the disgraced actor was working for. At least until rumors of him having a production curse that always followed such disasters lifted. 

Drake sighed into his drink before tipping the glass against his beak and taking a sip. A mix of lime soda and vodka, though he scarcely tasted the latter anymore. It was what; his second? Third? Eh, he hadn’t really been counting. Too busy leaning against bar’s thin metal railing, looking out over his beautiful city. It was a peaceful night, and Drake allowed himself to delight in the fact that it was largely in part due to his most recent efforts in the city. For the first time ever, the criminals of Saint Canard where just as scared of the shadows as they were of the light.

While doing wonders for the city; his nighttime excursions had been playing havoc on Drake’s daily life. Not that he’d ever had much of one. His social circle was small enough that it more resembled a dot than a ring. As in singular, one friend. Who was out having a good time with someone else, if his social media posts were anything to go by.

What was it about becoming a couple that made men more obnoxious online? Gone were the pictures of wrecked planes, greasy cars with their hoods popped open, and the rare, but appreciated selfie. In their place were pictures of dates, movie ticket stubs, gushing posts about how _happy_ they were with their partner. He was looking at one of those post now, drink in one hand and phone in the other as he rested his elbows on the metal railing. Both items held precariously over the edge of the roof as he scrolled through his feed.

Drake always had liked to live dangerously.

A picture of a very handsome duck and a _passable_ alien in front of an amusement park entrance had already received several likes from mutual followers. And Drake, ever the performer, tapped his thumb against that digital little heart that mocked him as it floated up the screen. He thought about typing how cute they looked, but that would mean setting his drink down, and as a hero he was trying to lead a more _honest_ life; he decided against lying.

And her skin may be purple, but it looked better on **him.**

… The color.

Yikes.

Maybe he should put the drink down. After finishing it, that was. And he did, the glass having been emptier than he remembered as he finished it in one long little sip. Hm. That left him with a free hand, and while Drake enjoyed danger and relished the way it made his heart race and his head buzz with adrenaline; drunk texting was a danger not even Darkwing Duck was willing to brave.

He needed something else to occupy his empty hand. Something that could help the dower mood he’d fallen into at the sight of that post. Something that preferably wouldn’t leave him regretting life come morning. Something he had been trying to quit, had successfully for three years, only to pick back up again as his dreams and aspirations literally burned down around him and his stressors doubled overnight.

Reaching into his left breast pocket, Drake pulled out a clunky, rectangular vape. It was an older model, one he’d owned since high school. Normally not the kind of habit associated with a hero; Drake’s had been known to both smoke cigarettes and the occasional cigar. And ever the immolating imitator, he had opted for the more modern version of the two. He hadn’t expected to get addicted, he had just wanted to be more like his idol. And maybe have a little something to take the edge off that came with trying to break into the film industry at the tender age of seventeen. At the time the vape had seemed the tamer option compared to the hard drugs his fellow struggling actors had been offering and inhaling.

Crackling sounded when Drake brought the drip tip to the side of his beak and inhaled. He held the heat in the back of his throat as he scrolled further down his feed. More dates, congratulations from some woman named Della; nothing Drake cared to see or read. He liked all the posts anyway. His beak parted slightly, just enough for him to blow smoke out the front, his attention pulled from his phone as he watching the grey puff rise and curl in the air before finally dissipating with the wind.

Just that single drag had eased the sting of stress in the back of Drake’s mind, that or his nicotine addiction. Either way, he no longer felt like vague posting about how terrible men were and how happy he was to be single. It wasn’t true, anyway. Neither that men are terrible nor that he was happy being alone. Thinking ill on other people’s happiness wasn’t very heroic of him and he can’t recall a time when he wasn’t alone. No friends or contact with his family since moving out and on from that nowhere town—

Drake should be used to the solitude.

It wasn’t until the possibility of something more with someone he really connected—had thought he had connected with— presented itself that he started to dread the long, quiet drives home, meal prepping for one, and having to decline the offer of a plus one invite to a nice bar like this.

It really shouldn’t have, though. Because beyond the occasional meet up to gush about their favorite hero, the look he couldn’t miss that his friend gave him whenever he saw Drake in the Darkwing uniform; there had been no inclination that the man felt _that way_ about him.

…

Drake puffed away at his vape to clear away the irritation he felt at having ever deluded himself into thinking such a fantastic man could ever feel that way about him. He should know better. He didn’t attract that kind of man; with his looks? He always attracted—

“Drake Mallard? Alone? Must be my lucky night.”

The creeps.

He rolled his head back and exhaled a long trail of smoke, looking at the man who had just approached him out of the corner of his eye. A hawk or falcon of some sort: tall, dark brown feathers, a long sharp beak, and a black shirt one size too tight on his broad chest. Not bad, not _great_ , but not bad.

“Yeah? And what makes it so lucky?” He pocketed his phone as he turned to focus on the unfamiliar bird. He didn’t recognize him from the set and _not bad_ didn’t grant access to this kind of bar.

“I got to meet you here. Word is you’re hard to find after the sun goes down.” The larger bird stepped closer to him, using the railing to lean against as he looked Drake up and down, hiding nothing from his expression.

Drake didn’t react to the obvious leering, instead asking, “so, there’s word about me, eh?”

“More than one.”

How nice. His first time back on a set in months and there was already a gossip reel.

“How about you share a few, then? Starting with your name.” The stranger knew who Drake was, but the mallard never made an effort to remember a plus one unless their last name caught his attention. Was the man a friend of one of the other crew members, or was he _family_ to one of the producers? The difference could determine Drake’s interest.

What little there was to garner.

Drake had been keeping a clean record for the past three years: no alcohol, no tobacco, and no hookups. His role as Darkwing was supposed to be his big break and his clean slate. A real hero’s journey, both on and off screen. Well, it had happened off screen, just not in the way he had been expecting.

“Harris Hawk.” The bird didn’t hold out a hand to shake or make any other attempt to make his introduction anything more than a name drop. Piddly little drop that it was; like a single drop of water into an already full bucket. Because Drake didn’t recognize the first of last name, and he knew a lot of names. All the important ones, anyway. Harris Hawk was an unnecessary addition.

“Okay,” Drake raised a brow, not brothering to conceal how unimpressed he was. “Do you want something?” Like it was obvious why he had been approached.

“Oh no, I just…” Harris took a deep breath like he was trying to calm his nerves. And then he was leaning closer to Drake, definitely crossing that personal space barrier all well versed socialites should be aware of. It had the duck leaning away and ready to tell the hawk he wasn’t interested when—

“I am a _huge_ fan of your work. I just… ever since your debut in The Martial Arts Kid, I’ve… Oh man,” The man ran a hand through his hair, tied into a loose ponytail at the back and looking need of treatment. “I had this whole smooth spiel planned. I’m just not used to meeting someone like… I’m _Harris Hawk_ , I…“

Drake could recognize the beginnings of a rambling and could empathize; he had his own problem with saying things he shouldn’t when nervous or excited. So, taking mercy on the man, he held up a hand to cut Harris off before he could even begin.

“You’re a fan, got it.” He gave Harris another, slower once over. Still just _not bad_ , and Drake wanted to introduce the hawk to some better product, because that hair was tragic. Why grow it out if the care was going to be neglected?

“I take it you’re an aspiring stuntman? Came to ask a pro for tips or maybe some… on hands advice?” Drake hadn’t meant to purr the last bit, but it was so easy to fall into old habits. So easy to give into the temptation a slightly warmer bed, if only for a few hours, presented.

“Oh, no I’m not a— I mean the on hands advice would be… nice. It’s never too late to learn, right?” Harris grinned at him, a hand sliding across the railing closer to Drake’s own. He glanced down at the distance between them, and considered allowing their hands to touch. 

Finally the other had gotten over whatever nerves had been shaking him up and that smooth confidence Drake had been approached with had returned. Good, novel as the idea of having a fan was, much as he deserved the adoration; Drake didn’t believe Hawk actually watched his movies. The man had probably just done a quick online search of him and thought plying to the mallard’s well known ego would increase his chances of getting lucky tonight.

“A private fan meet up, then?” Drake slid his hand across the railing, and brown feathers brushed against white.

Well, he was right.

“I was thinking more along the lines of a private audition; see I’ve got this project and it still needs a lead actor…”

Drake chuckled, “Oh? Well, I think we both know how much I need work.” Drake made himself sound more eager than he felt; guys always liked it when he came across as wanting to get laid more than he actually did. 

“Yeah, it’s a shame about the Darkwing Duck movie; I saw the trailer, it looked amazing. I mean you… Haha, maybe uh, bringing that up right now isn’t the…”

Wasn’t the time? Yeah, no duh. What professional, in any field, wanted to be reminded of the disaster that damn near ended their career? Who wanted to be reminded of the black mark struck against their name due to no fault of their own? And more than that—

Bringing up his failed project was no way to get into the pants Drake didn’t wear.

“Good catch; I was beginning to doubt your luck.”

The man caught onto those words’ meaning the way Drake had meant for him to. Used as the mallard was to being both the bait and the hook on late nights such as these.

“That saying I got some?”

“You might.” Drake’s eyes slanted, the flirtatious tone returning so easily to him. Why with this bird, and not the one he actually…

He turned away from Harris and looked at the table on the other side of him, where his three empty glasses from earlier had been placed.

“… But my cup is a little empty to be making these kinds of career changing decisions.” Hopefully he wouldn’t have to spell out what that meant. Actually having to _ask_ another man to buy him a drink was a low Drake wasn’t willing to sink to, no matter how lonely he was.

“Oh, right! S-sure…” Harris almost tripped over himself as he turned away to go get Drake the drink he didn’t ask for. “What’ll you have?” The man called back.

“Vodka Cranberry,” Drake answered, eyes already back on the far away street below.

With the hawk out of sight, his own nerves were starting to get the better of him.

Not one hookup in over three years; was he really going to start now just because he was a little buzzed, a little sad, and a little lonely? He was always some form of the three, but combine them all at once and apparently he was ready to go to bed with a bird who was only _not bad._

He frowned, sighed, ran a hand over his short white locks. Really, was this the behavior of a hero? Would he want a kid to look up to him like this? Desperate for company, bitter over a friend’s happiness, out at a bar when he should be patrolling the city?

A siren wailed in the distance.

His eyes roved over the side of the building the bar sat atop of. Flagpole here, exterior AC unit there, window ledge a little further down. Practically stairs for a superhero. He looked behind him to see Harris at the bar waiting on his drink. Not much time then. Definitely no time to apologize to a bird he would never meet again. Tonight was just a moment of, never to be repeated again, weakness.

So, after setting his vape down on the same table as his empty glasses, Drake gripped the metallic railing tight enough to turn the skin under his feathers white. Then, with one final deep breath—

He leaped.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember seeing something saying Drake gives off millennial vibes, and now that's the only way I can see him.


End file.
